


Losing the War

by prattery



Series: Winning the Battle, Losing the War [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Drama, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon's Infamous Communication Skills (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon's Tried and True Way of Dealing with Emotions, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Merlin Emrys Support Club, Merlin Needs a Hug (Merlin), Pining Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Psychological Trauma, rated t for trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prattery/pseuds/prattery
Summary: Merlin has nightmares. Arthur tries to help him, and Merlin learns to let him.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Winning the Battle, Losing the War [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821733
Comments: 46
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to the previous fic, where Merlin used so much power that he lost everything that made him human and Arthur had to pull him back. 
> 
> Merlin is an absolute sweetheart with a heart of gold and I don't believe that he's 100% alright with killing in cold blood. I haven't really found anything that touched upon this, so this is my contribution to the fandom. Enjoy x

That first night, Arthur was woken by screaming from the chambers next to his. He doesn’t hesitate—he sits up, grabs his sword and runs. He kicks Merlin’s door open and gets into a fighting stance, looking around for signs of an intruder. The guards posted on Merlin’s door trail in after him uselessly.

“Nobody came in here, my Lord,” one of the guards supplies, ever-so-helpful. “Nobody’s even been in the hallway.”

Arthur steps closer to where Merlin’s bed. He still hasn’t stopped screaming. Arthur turns to face the guards with a grave look and commands them, “out. And speak nothing of this to anyone.”

They bow deeply and scurry along to follow Arthur’s order. The door shuts quietly behind them. The moment they leave, Arthur parts Merlin’s bed curtains and approaches Merlin, making sure that his movements are slow and deliberate to keep from startling him.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls out, setting his sword gently on the ground. “It’s me. It’s Arthur.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, but his screaming ceases upon hearing Arthur’s voice.

“Merlin,” Arthur tries again, gentler this time. He sits gingerly on the side of the bed. Merlin is fast asleep, still, but his eyes are moving wildly under his eyelids. Arthur shakes him. He has heard stories of men getting lost in their dreams, of men who don’t know if they’re asleep or awake and lash out when somebody tries to force them back into wakefulness. When Merlin doesn’t rouse, Arthur shakes him again and doesn’t take his hand away. Arthur can feel Merlin relax infinitesimally into his touch, but perhaps it is only wishful thinking on his part. “You’re in Camelot,” Arthur whispers, “you’re safe. No one is here to harm you.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whimpers, scared.

“Yes, Merlin,” replies Arthur. “I’m right here.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything else after that, but he doesn’t wake either. Arthur stays with him, stroking his hair, easy as you please, and doesn’t leave until he is certain that Merlin has fallen back into a restful sleep.

They don’t speak about it in the morning, and Arthur doubts Merlin even remembers. He is happy to observe that Merlin is his annoyingly bright, cheerful self, as if he didn’t spend half the night screaming and whimpering, lost in his own head. Everyone gets nightmares, every once in a while. Arthur himself is no stranger to them. There ought to be no reason why he should be rattled at all.

* * *

Except, of course, it doesn’t happen “once in a while”. It becomes a rather regular occurrence, and Arthur is beginning to lose quite a lot of sleep. Fortunately, though—well, relatively speaking—it happens once a night at its most frequent. Arthur finds himself sleeping next to the door connecting his bedchamber and Merlin’s, keeping guard, anxiously waiting for the shouting to begin before he’d break through the door, talking Merlin down to a more restful sleep. He dismisses the guards during these hours—there’s no need for them, now that Arthur is constantly keeping watch.

It seems to help, having Arthur there. Or perhaps Arthur would just like to think so.

He was late, once, after an exhausting day. He woke to the sound of a commotion on the chambers next door, and when he came in, the things in Merlin’s chambers that either rattling loudly on the surface or floating in the air. He had to duck and weave himself through various strange contraptions Merlin had to reach the bed. When he finally did, he found Merlin sobbing, curled tight like a babe on top of his duvet, eyes half-open and bright with gold.

It took an awfully long time to calm Merlin that night, so entrenched was he in the horrors of his own making. Arthur had to shout, not a little bit scared by how out of it Merlin was. He didn’t seem to recognise Arthur, didn’t seem to recognise he was anywhere other than his own head. Arthur’s own eyes were wet, seeing Merlin so wrapped up in his agony. He was close to begging Merlin to wake up when Merlin finally blinked awake, the gold fading from his irises. He fell back into sleep, but Arthur didn’t. He spent the rest of the night awake and restless, wondering what the hell Merlin had torturing him at night.

He doesn’t bring up the topic. Merlin never seems to remember his dreams, doesn’t seem to know that Arthur is by his bedside almost every night. And if being oblivious keeps Merlin cheerful and content, Arthur doesn’t have the heart to take that away from him.

He does, however, decide to take Merlin hunting. It’s their first after Arthur got Merlin back, and really, it’s less of a hunting trip and more of an excuse to ride out with Merlin.

_“Come on, it’s a sign for celebration!” Arthur grinned, boyish and unapologetic. “Camelot’s Court Sorcerer has returned!”_

_“If you want to go gallivanting in the woods and shoot at some innocent animals, don’t use me as an excuse,” Merlin grumbled, but he didn’t resist when Arthur tugged him. Arthur knew him well enough to be able to tell that Merlin was hiding a smile._

On their ride out, they find an inn, and Arthur decides that they can stay there for the night, even though it’s a hunting trip. There’s no reason to sleep on cold, hard ground, after all, and especially not when they could rest in a warm, dry bed, and have a drink. Merlin calls Arthur spoilt. Arthur shoves him into a bush.

Naturally, the inn only has one room, equipped only with one sorry excuse of a bed. The innkeeper offers his own bed, but Arthur refuses him most steadfastly, despite the innkeeper’s insistence.

So they take the vacant room, and Arthur gets the small, lumpy bed to himself. He _is_ the King of Camelot, after all, and he does have standards. He throws the one pillow at Merlin so Merlin could use it, though, because Arthur is not a complete tyrant. He doesn’t think he has the patience to deal with Merlin whinging about a crick in his neck all the way to Camelot.

Merlin doesn’t scream himself hoarse that night. Instead, Arthur wakes to what sounds like scratching on the wooden floors. He sits up, immediately alert and wide-awake, already knowing that Merlin is the source of the noise. He is right—of course he is. The sound comes from Merlin’s nails, scrabbling on the floor for purchase. Merlin is thrashing on the floor, his threadbare blanket twisted around him.

“Merlin?”

Merlin doesn’t answer him. Arthur crouches down next to Merlin. Up close, he can see Merlin’s eyebrows furrowed together and his hair drenched with sweat. Arthur can hear his breaths coming out shallow and quick, hitched high with fear, and the agony on his face makes something twist in Arthur’s chest. 

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, softly as to not startle him. He pats Merlin’s cheek gently. “Come on, Merlin. It’s just a dream.”

At the sound of Arthur’s voice, Merlin panicked even more, if that was even possible. “Arth’r,” Merlin calls out. “Arthur!”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Arthur shakes Merlin’s shoulders. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Mercifully, this is not one of the more difficult nights. Merlin’s eyes flutter open, dazed and confused, and his eyes flit around the room confusedly before settling on Arthur.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, hands flying about before settling on Arthur’s arm. “Arthur. You’re here.”

“Brilliant display of observational skills,”

“Good, good,” Merlin mumbles nonsensically. “Yeah. That’s good.”

He releases Arthur’s arm and settles back down, blinking slowly. Arthur steps back, giving space for Merlin to orient himself.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, slowly sitting up as he gathers his wit. “For waking me. _Nicely,_ that is.”

Arthur ignores the comment and offers him some water instead. Merlin takes it, drinking it gratefully. This is the first time that Merlin is fully conscious after a nightmare. He watches Merlin with some curiosity. “Want to tell me what that’s about?”

Merlin huffs, his lips twisting into a joyless smile. His eyes flit up to gauge Arthur’s reaction, skittish and nervous. “Not really.”

“Don’t pretend to be interesting,” Arthur shoves him playfully. “I could make it an order, you know.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to look curious. He peers at Arthur from under his eyelashes and asks, “are you going to?”

Arthur considers his answer carefully. He wonders if he would like to be that sort of king, one who misuses the power vested in him to satisfy errant curiosity. This is a personal matter, it hardly pertains to the kingdom.“No,” Arthur decides. “If it’s really important, I trust that you’d tell me.”

He pretends not to notice Merlin’s blanch.

* * *

The next time it happens, they are on their way back to Camelot, and Arthur is some time into his watch. For the most part, his watch has been uneventful. The night is beautiful, with clear skies stretching out above them, and the fire is crackling merrily, warding off the chill. Arthur listens closely to the sounds of the forest, unfurling all around them—the chirping crickets, the hooting owls, the leaves rustled by the wind. It’s peaceful. Arthur feels a strong surge of love for his kingdom rising in his chest.

It’s because he was listening so closely, then, that Arthur could tell that Merlin is sinking into another nightmare. He doesn’t hesitate—within moments, he is kneeling by Merlin’s side, shaking him awake.

Merlin’s eyes open, abrupt and wide, and Arthur watches as the gold fades from his irises. He doesn’t step back this time and sits there, shoulder-to-shoulder with Merlin.

“I’ve lost track, now.” Arthur begins conversationally.

Merlin glances at Arthur questioningly. “Of what?”

“Of the number of times I’ve had to wake you,” says Arthur. “You scream through the night in Camelot. Almost every day, in fact. I can always hear it through the walls. You don’t usually remember in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Merlin mutters.

“Don’t be,”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “why haven’t you told me before?”

Arthur regards him with an incredulous look then.

Merlin tilts his head, conceding the point.

“Your nightmares, Merlin,” Arthur probes instead, “what are they about?”

“You probably have a better clue than I do. Didn’t even realise I was having it, most of the time.” He huffs a laugh. “Probably for the best.”

Arthur hums, unconvinced. “Well, you must have _some_ idea,” he presses. “Is this new, then, the nightmares? Did Gaius use to wake you?”

“Er,” Merlin says. Something in his expression closes. Arthur knows this expression—Merlin only gets like this when he has something to hide. “Not quite.”

“Not quite _which,_ Merlin?” Arthur huffs impatiently. “Not quite new?”

Merlin lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, before admitting, “Not quite new. I’ve always had them every once in a while. But so does everyone! It’s fine.”

Bless him, he probably thought that saying that would make things better. He probably thought that Arthur’s worries would abate if he had known that this is not a new development. But Arthur refuses to let Merlin shut him out this time. “Well?” he prods expectantly, “have you always forgotten what they’re about by morning?”

“Not always,” he admits, and does not elaborate. It’s like trying to squeeze water out of stone.

 _What is it?_ Arthur wants to ask. He doesn’t voice it out loud—he can’t bring himself to beg for this piece of information, even when his concern is weighing heavy in his mind. _What is it that you’re not telling me?_

He changes tactic.

“Considering that it’s my sleep that you so often interrupt, I think you ought to tell me,” Arthur drawls. He knows that it’s the wrong thing to say the moment the words leave his mouth. Merlin’s usually open expression shutters even further.

“Sorry,” Merlin says again. “Won’t happen again, Sire.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur sighs, aggravated.

Merlin doesn’t reply, focusing instead on the crackling fire. His expression is schooled into something smooth and impassive, unreadable even to Arthur.

Arthur feels like kicking himself.

“I’ll take the watch,” Merlin says suddenly, standing up. “Go to sleep, Arthur. You’ve been up for hours.”

Arthur snorts. Who does Merlin think he is? “You don’t tell me what to do,”

“Come on, then,” Merlin grins, but it looks false on his face. “I’m not going back to sleep. You might as well rest.” _Especially now that I won’t wake you anymore,_ Arthur hears. He ignores the unease sitting in his gut like a stone. Perhaps Merlin isn’t ready. Perhaps it would take some time for Merlin to trust Arthur with this. He could understand, really, even if he didn’t want to, considering his earlier words.

 _And that’s alright,_ Arthur tells himself, _it has to be. I can wait. In the meantime, I just have to show him that he can trust me._

Arthur thinks about how Merlin has suffered alone for so long. He’s not going to let it happen again.

* * *

There is a period of time, after that, where Merlin doesn’t wake him at all. Arthur sleeps through the night, for a change, all the way until morning. Merlin is presumably the same. He was even _late_ for council sessions twice, despite starting well after Arthur’s morning training. Arthur can’t find it in himself to even feel annoyed—he just quirks an eyebrow, lips twitching, and greeted him with “sleeping in, Merlin?” when Merlin finally bumbled in. Arthur is too grateful for the needed rest to complain otherwise.

Except something doesn’t feel right. Merlin appears vacant when Arthur addresses him—there’s often a faraway look in his eyes. Can hardly hold his attention over a short period of time. He’s absent, but in a completely different way compared to the time when Merlin was consumed with pure magic. Back then, he was aloof and indifferent, stone-cold and emotionless. Now, his eyes are glazed over most of the time. He is dopey and all too agreeable.

It doesn’t click until Arthur sees a line of small glass vials along Merlin’s worktable, all filled with a liquid coloured a shocking purple. He recognises them in an instant—Gaius had been brewing those for years. Arthur even helped him deliver those for Morgana.

“You’ve been taking sleeping draughts,” Arthur accuses loudly. “ _Excessively._ Haven’t you.”

Merlin is not really in any state to say no. It irks Arthur to no end. Merlin just stares up at Arthur, docile and harmless, and say agreeably, “yes, Sire!”

“This stops today.”

“Of course, sire,” Merlin nods without protest, looking almost apologetic, even. It only makes Arthur angrier. He swallows. It’s just like Merlin to take matters into his own hands and to rather muck it up in the process. Are the nightmares beginning to seep into his waking hours, is that why Merlin is chancing it with a potion that is evidently too potent for him? Is this manufactured calmness better than the alternative?

He probably thought he was doing Arthur a favour. Arthur wants to strangle him.

“I need your wits about you, Merlin,” Arthur admits softly. “Not that you seem to have it, most of the time, but this is ridiculous.”

Merlin just nods. He doesn’t even make a discourteous retort—that’s how Arthur knows how _bad_ it is.

“If I find any more in here,” Arthur points a finger at him, glaring, “I will throw them out of the window. I don’t care how rare the ingredients are. Is that understood?”

Merlin nods again solemnly. “Yes, Sire!”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

* * *

Because Arthur can’t seem to trust Merlin with his own wellbeing, he pops into Merlin’s bedchamber unannounced that night. When he walks in, Merlin is bustling around his chamber with only his trousers on.

Arthur clears his throat and most decidedly does not stare at Merlin’s bare back. He’s not sure when Merlin grew from the lanky lad he remembered into this lithe man with wiry muscles and skin crisscrossed with old scars. Merlin has told him about his adventures, of course, running all around the land saving Arthur from all sorts of strange creatures and vengeful sorcerers, but it appears as though he hasn’t been entirely forthcoming.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Merlin complains. He doesn’t bother trying to cover up.

Arthur doesn’t deign to answer that, because it is truly ludicrous coming from Merlin, of all people. He raises a haughty eyebrow instead. “I’m the king, Merlin. I don’t need to knock.”

The fact that Merlin is being annoying again, and the furthest thing away from agreeable, is a good sign. Not that he’d ever tell Merlin that.

“It’s wearing off, I see,” Arthur observes.

Merlin turns to face him. There is a pinched expression on his face. “Arthur,”

“No.” Arthur interrupts. “No more, Merlin. You promised.”

“I was under the influence of the potion when I made the promise.”

“And that’s why it needs to stop,” Arthur reasons. “It means I can’t take your word. Means you’re not _thinking_ when you give advice. What if something happens, Merlin? What if Camelot needs your help?”

Merlin winces at that but acknowledges his point.

“Haven’t considered it, have you,” Arthur snorts. He whacks the back of Merlin’s head playfully. “Idiot. Aren’t you terribly lucky, to have an intelligent sovereign around to steer you back onto the right path?”

“Hm?” Merlin rolls his eyes, dramatically looking around the room before looking back to Arthur. “Oh. You were talking about yourself.”

“Har har,” says Arthur with a straight face. To Arthur’s horror, he can feel his expression softening. “This isn’t the way, Merlin,” says Arthur gently, “what I said before—I know I didn’t say it right—“

‘Sorry,” Merlin interrupts him loudly. “Are you saying that you were _wrong_?”

“I said I didn’t word it properly,”

“Is that what you said? That you were _wrong?”_

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur slaps the back of Merlin’s head. He hesitates for a brief moment before continuing, “But I mean it. You _can_ tell me. You do know that, don’t you?”

Judging by the surprise on Merlin’s face, he didn’t. It stings. After all this time—after everything Arthur did to bring Merlin back—how can Merlin be so surprised, still? Surely Arthur had been more than obvious? He had _kissed_ Merlin, for gods’ sake. And it was that kiss has brought Merlin back. That _surely_ counts for something.

Not that they’ve talked about it since.

Then, because Arthur has exposed himself _way_ too much, he says, “we’ll find a way to fix this. One that doesn’t compromise your capacity to think. We all know it’s barely there enough as it is, on a good day.”

Merlin smiles up at him, bright and open. “Not like you to be this nice,” he comments, because he is an arse and doesn’t know when to shut up.

 _Because I already know what it’s like to lose you,_ Arthur thinks miserably. _And I have no intention on going through that again._

“I had a genuine concern,” Arthur admits instead, because there is no way he was going to say _that._ He soon realises that what he said was no less revealing, and regrets his words immediately. The silence that follows is heavy with something unnamed. Merlin seems to be at loss for words, and while usually, Arthur would cherish such a rare moment, he fervently wishes that Merlin would say something now. Unable to bear the awkwardness, he complains, “and for gods’ sakes, put some clothes on!”

“Why?” Merlin shoots back, grinning. “It’s my room.”

“Yes, but this is my castle.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Merlin splutters, laughing. “You never bother.”

“I’m the king, Merlin,” Arthur reminds him smugly. “I can wander around however I want. You, on the other hand, is my subject. That means I get to tell you what to do.”

“Well, nobody’s telling you to look,”

“You’ve been speaking to Gwaine, haven’t you,” Arthur narrows his eyes. Gwaine has been _overjoyed_ to have Merlin back. And the thought of Merlin spending an excessive amount of time with Gwaine, alone and possibly bare-chested…

“Maybe.”

“Oh,” Arthur replies uneasily, like the intelligent sovereign he is.

“Is that jealousy I detect?”

Arthur scoffs, but it doesn’t sound convincing, not even to his own ears. Merlin doesn’t appear convinced, either.

“We need to talk about _that_ , don’t we,” Merlin sighs, resigned, looking every bit like he doesn’t want to. Arthur stiffens. He knows immediately what this is about and suppresses a strong urge to bolt from the room.

“No,” denies Arthur, too quickly. “We don’t have to talk about anything at all.”

“I haven’t thanked you for pulling me back,”

“Consider it done,” Arthur waves a hand dismissively, eyes flitting quickly to the door. “You would’ve done the same.”

Merlin hesitates. “Does Gwen know?”

“Yes,” Arthur sets his jaw. “She does.”

* * *

_There were tears in Guinevere’s eyes when Arthur told her the story of how he got Merlin back. The truth is this: Arthur kissed Merlin, and it brought Merlin back from where the Old Religion claimed him._

_He could say that he didn’t mean it, but he knew that would be a lie. Arthur will not dishonour her further. He knew how he felt about Merlin, and how Merlin felt about him. But all those times before, what they had had always been enough. There never was any need to describe what they had in words. There was never any need for anything else. To do something about it would’ve been unfair. Not to Merlin, who deserved somebody who would always put him first. And certainly not to Guinevere._

_Nearly losing Merlin has forced Arthur to come to terms to how he always felt about Merlin._

_“Thank you for your honesty,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Arthur. I mean, I suppose I’ve always known. I can’t say I’m best pleased about the fact that you kissed him. But I’m also glad we got him back. I don’t know—” she huffed, frustrated. “I know that I can’t begrudge you this. Logically. Not when I—” her voice breaks. “I’m happy for you, I am. But—”_

_He wanted to look away, unable to witness the pain in her features._

_“Gods, this is difficult,” she exhaled, chuckling humourlessly. She looked away, blinking the tears from her eyes. “I suppose I’ve always known that we were never each other’s first choice. The way you look at him, sometimes—“_

_Arthur stiffened. He didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t ask “what look?” even though he genuinely was unaware that he had been sending Merlin looks. He had underestimated her insightfulness, her empathy—all the things that made him fall in love with her in the first place._

_“It’s good that it’s out in the open. That we’re acknowledging it.” She finished. She set her jaw, lifted her chin, and met Arthur’s eyes. She didn’t have to say that acting on those feelings is a different matter entirely, Arthur knows it already. The guilt simmers in his gut._

_“We are brilliant together,” Arthur told her. “And this doesn’t change the fact that I love you, you know. I think I always will.”_

_“I know,” she replies. “And I, you. But it’s just not the same, is it.” Not like you love him._

_Not like you love Lancelot, either, Arthur thought, but kept the thought to himself. Because she was right—it’s not the same. He loved Gwen like a man loves his wife. Sweet and innocent and chivalrous, even, the sort you’d find in the poems Morgana used to secretly read when she was younger._

_There aren’t words to sufficiently summarise how he feels about Merlin. It’s more than he would a brother-in-arms. More than he should for a dear friend. It’s a desperate, consuming sort of thing that fills his chest. He can’t name the warmth he feels suffusing his being when they play their little game, their little back-and-forth. The invincibility he feels when he rides into danger with Merlin by his side. The feverish worry when something is wrong with Merlin. How he’d do everything to keep Merlin by his side. How the mere thought of losing him forever was enough to send Arthur into a blind panic. It was enough to keep him searching for ways to bring Merlin home, dogged and determined despite the odds. Despite the months that have lapsed._

_“I’m sorry,” Arthur choked out. He didn’t know what else he could say. “I was never going to do anything about it.” He admits. “You certainly deserve better than that. But when he was gone, I—“ he swallows heavily, unable to finish._

_“You didn’t know, did you,” Guinevere surmised. Her tone is astonished. “Not until he was gone. You genuinely didn’t.” How could you not have known?_

_Arthur’s eyes widened involuntarily, not expecting Guinevere to glean this truth too._

_She hesitated. “Does he know?”_

_“We haven’t really spoken about it.”_

_“Well,” she lifted her eyebrows. Arthur could hear the unspoken “of course you haven’t.”_

_“I thought that perhaps I ought to talk to you first.”_

_Guinevere hummed but didn’t reply. There was tension in the air before, but it wasn’t there then. What lingered was a distinct feeling hanging heavy in the air, like when you’re on the precipice of something new._

_When she spoke again, her voice was gentle, “I do understand, Arthur,” She smiled sadly. “Probably more than you realise.”_

_“Nothing needs to change,” said Arthur. It came out almost like a plea. “We can just carry on as we were.”_

_“It’s a bit late for that,” Guinevere replied, though not as harshly as Arthur deserved. “We would be lying to ourselves, otherwise. We’re just admitting it to ourselves now. Do you—” she glanced skyward again, blinking fast. “Do you want me to leave?”_

_“Of course not,” Arthur rushed to reassure her, aghast. “I would never—“_

_She smiled, relieved. “You forgave me when I betrayed you,” she said. “I think it’s only fair that I do the same.”_

_Arthur suppressed a wince, but he knew her accusation rings true. He_ had _betrayed her. Her acceptance of it—and the knowledge that she did it first—don’t change that fact. It doesn’t make it any better._

_“Camelot needs her queen,” Arthur told her instead. He is greedy—he wants everything. “As do I.”_

_“I know how it goes, really,” she said in a feigned lightness. “Kings keep mistresses and favourites. It’s really not that uncommon.”_

_“Where does that leave us?” Arthur forces himself to ask. He is afraid of her answer._

_Guinevere visibly considers her answer. “I’d like for us to remain friends,” she replies. Arthur’s knees nearly buckle from the relief. “We were before. We will be again. But for now, I think it would be best if we distance ourselves from one another a little bit.”_

_Arthur’s heart clenches at that. It doesn’t feel like the end of his marriage, but he’s not entirely sure what this is if not that. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Well, if someone catches your eye,”_

_She chuckles, but there is a mischievous twinkle in her eyes now. “I shall hold you to that.”_

* * *

“Guinevere and I will remain friends,” Arthur tells Merlin, his eyes peering up to gauge Merlin’s expression, “As we were before. And she will remain Queen.” _But that’s all there is to it,_ he doesn’t say. _She knows my heart lies with another. As I know hers will never be fully mine._

“I’m sorry.” Merlin frowns. Then, after a heavy silence, “is it my fault?”

Arthur considers his answer carefully. If it was, he knows Merlin would never have intended it to end this way. He has always been their biggest supporter—he cheered the loudest when Guinevere was coronated, after all, and always pushed for them to be together, even when Arthur had his doubts.

“No,” Arthur says firmly. It was Arthur who kissed Merlin. Merlin wasn’t even fully there, he hadn’t instigated anything. Merlin just couldn’t help being _Merlin_ , and Arthur couldn’t help how he feels towards him. “My actions were my own.” _As was hers._ While Arthur has forgiven her for her transgression so long ago, something was firmly broken when she ran off with the shade of Lancelot. It was only a ghost, a shadow of the man that Lancelot was—but it was enough for her to abandon _him,_ to abandon Camelot and the promise of being queen. He can’t forget. There would always be the question of trust between them.

This redefinition of his and Guinevere’s relationship liberates them both. She is free to mourn her lost love without feeling guilty because Arthur is there.

“She is free to pursue whomever she wishes. As am I.”

“Oh,” Merlin appears thoughtful. It’s a strange look on him. There’s a brief pause again, and Arthur watches as Merlin steels his resolve. He knows, immediately, what Merlin is about to say, even before Merlin said it out loud.

“You kissed me.”

 _Oh, gods._ Arthur strongly wishes that he has fortified wine with him—this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. He tilts his chin up, squaring his shoulders. “Yes. It appears that I did.”

“You wouldn’t let me go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not done here.” _Because you are my friend. Because I don’t want to lose you._ “Camelot needs you still.”

Merlin remains silent. This appears to be a new character trait, Arthur observes. The Merlin of old would never have stopped chattering, and Arthur would never feel compelled to fill the silence as a direct result. “It worked, didn’t it?” Arthur points out, unnecessarily.

“So it did.” Merlin agrees. “How did you know to do it?”

“I didn’t.” _It felt right and I was desperate._ “What does it matter?”

Merlin looks thoughtful again.

“You refused to accept the fact that I was gone.” He finally says. Arthur tenses.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Merlin sounds so _earnest_. His eyes are so wide and blue and guileless, and Arthur stands rooted to the ground, unable to look away. “For not giving up on me.”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur replies gruffly, somewhat uncomfortable with the depth of Merlin’s sincerity. “Can we talk about something else now?”

Merlin’s expression sours. “This seems like an important thing to discuss.”

“Look, I’m not expecting anything going forward,” sighs Arthur. “So it was a kiss. So it brought you back. That could be that.”

“Do you want it to be that?”

“Do you?”

“Gods, why are you so difficult,” Merlin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. Like _he’s_ one to talk.

“I don’t see the need for us to do anything else at present,” Arthur says stiffly. “It is what it is. I’m happy to continue as we were before.”

Merlin appears unconvinced, but he nods. “Very well.”


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares come back almost immediately. The only change is that now Merlin doesn’t forget them when dawn breaks.

It’s almost worse. Merlin remembering his dreams only means that both he and Arthur are exhausted when morning comes. Merlin would only recognise Arthur half the time—other times, Merlin doesn’t seem to know where he is, so consumed is he by the world inside his head. It’s not always screaming, either—sometimes, Arthur is woken by the sound of horrible, hitching sobs.

They lasted two consecutive weeks before going to Gaius. It becomes obvious that this isn’t something that they can deal with on their own. Gaius berates Merlin for not seeking his help sooner, and Arthur watches from the corner of the room, with arms crossed in front of his chest, smug because he _had_ told Merlin to go to Gaius earlier. But then, Gaius turns his disapproving eyebrow to Arthur, wiping the snicker off his face. It was Merlin’s turn to appear smug.

So Gaius goes through his extensive book collection and suggests weaker sleeping draughts, ones that are not so potent that it fuzzes with Merlin’s head. It only worked for a short amount of time. Merlin’s body ends up building a resistance to the draughts over time, and they have to keep increasing the dosage. They stop, eventually, because Gaius is wary that the amount of potions ingested may affect Merlin’s organs in unforeseeable ways.

They speak to Kilgharrah. He is as useful as he always is. The druids are much the same. They all say that this is something with no quick fix. That this is something that Merlin has to resolve by himself, in his own time. They mention help and support from others, though didn’t exactly specify how. They say that at the end of the day, it is up to Merlin. Merlin thunks his head on the nearest tree the moment they turn their backs.

They remain tight-lipped about the issue throughout—the fewer people know, the better. They can’t afford word to leak out for fear of appearing weak. Merlin is the strongest defence at Camelot disposal—while they are far from defenceless with Merlin out of the equation, they would be considerably weaker still. Their enemies know that. 

Gwen is the first to notice that something is wrong.

She approaches the subject during one of her weekly dinners with Merlin. It’s just the two of them—no servants, because it would be too strange, and no Arthur, because Gwen was Merlin’s friend _first._

“Is everything alright with you and Arthur?”

“Um,” Merlin says, caught with his mouth full.

“Sorry,” she mutters, cringing. “I do have a habit of doing that. It’s just that you look exhausted, both of you. You don’t have to tell me, if it’s—you know—private. But you look tired. And not happy-tired, just, you know—” she gestures uselessly. “Tired.”

Merlin smiles indulgently as she flounders for words. It’s not often that she gets like this—she is ever so eloquent when she holds court, or when she is speaking to foreign dignitaries. This is how he knows that things are alright between them.

It feels remarkably good to talk to her like a friend again. Things were strained between them for some time, their interactions limited to tight-lipped polite smiles and forced how-do-you-dos. It wasn’t exactly difficult, avoiding each other. Neither he nor she is a servant anymore, they have plenty of things to keep them busy and well out the other’s way. It didn’t last long—they were determined, at the end of the day, not to lose each other.

“I get nightmares, sometimes,” Merlin admits without hesitation. He has always hated hiding things from her, and she is one of the most perceptive people he knows. There isn’t much point in lying to her anyway. It was _her_ who recognised that he wasn’t himself during the episode with the Fomorrah. She knows him too well not to be able to tell when things are not alright with him. “They wake him up, and then he wakes me up. We haven’t slept properly in _moons._ ”

“Oh,” she bites her lip worriedly. “Sounds awful. Morgana—“ _used to have the same,_ she almost says, but she catches herself.

Merlin stiffens, already knowing the direction this is going. It wasn’t something that he has ever considered before. Something catches in his throat at the thought of becoming like _Morgana_. “Oh gods, you don’t think I’m turning into Morgana, are you?”

“You’re not,” she says hesitantly. “You have a good heart, Merlin.”

But Morgana did too. They both know that.

“I don’t really remember them, most of the time, but when I do, it’s not—premonitions,” Merlin offers, both as an attempt to placate her as well as to convince himself. It works; she sags a little in relief. “Usually it’s just memories.”

“Half the things you’ve gone through, Merlin,” she says sympathetically, shaking her head. “I can’t begin to imagine it. Arthur doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, raising his cup in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

She chuckles, but her eyes are serious. “We all are. Incredibly lucky, that is. To have you on our side.” 

He smiles, humbled.

“What have you tried?”

“Sleeping draughts, but they didn’t work very well, or for very long,” he moans miserably.

“Oh, is that what _that_ was about?”

“What was?”

“When you would keep bursting in into the council session late,”

Merlin nods.

“Bet Arthur loved that,”

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Merlin grinned. “Thought it was brilliant. Told me off for it before _commanding_ me to stop, can you imagine?”

“He’s just worried,” she reminds him gently, growing more serious. “As am I, Merlin. It can’t be healthy, especially if it’s been keeping you up for so long. If you don’t mind, I—” she pauses, unsure of herself. “I can wake you too. Arthur and I can take turns being there.”

Merlin shifts, a little uncomfortable. He appreciates her intention—she just wants to be there for him, too. The thing is, though, it’s difficult enough letting Arthur see him like that—lost in the throes of his nightmares, screaming and crying and whimpering through the night. Helpless while he waits for Arthur to wake him. He already feels weak and exposed, his ability to stand on his own ripped from him. To have another person seeing that—

“It’s fine if you’re not comfortable with it,” Gwen rushes to say, frowning slightly. She must have seen something in his expression. “Never mind—“

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Merlin interrupts her. “Thank you for the offer, Gwen. It means a lot. It’s just that—I hate it. Wish I don’t have to deal with this at all.”

He knows it sounds childish, but there is truly no other way to sum up his feelings on the matter.

“Maybe you should talk about it,” she suggests. “The things that you _do_ remember. It’s alright if you’re not comfortable sharing it with me. Talk to Arthur, then, or Gaius. Gwaine, even. It might help.” She reaches for his hands, clasping it between her own.“I know you’re used to dealing with things yourself, but you have so many people who care about you, Merlin. You don’t have to bear this alone. You know that, don’t you?”

Merlin’s eyes burn at that, warmth flooding his veins. He is floored, unspeakably grateful for her.

She stands. “Come here,”

Merlin walks to her and lets her envelop him in a warm hug.

* * *

The second person to come to him is Gwaine.

“Did Gwen put you to this?” Merlin asks him suspiciously.

“Why does anybody had to put me to anything?” Gwaine retorts, flicking his hair. “Have you ever thought that perhaps _I_ noticed?”

Merlin shoots him an unimpressed look. “Really, Gwaine.”

“Fine, it was Percival who said it first,” Gwaine admits, rolling his eyes. “Not that it was hard to miss. You look awful, mate. You and Arthur both. You might as well streak the courtyard while screaming _things are not alright._ ”

“Oh, cheers,” Merlin snipes. “It’s not that bad—“

“So things _are_ not alright,” Gwaine crows. Merlin rolls his eyes. “Come on, Merlin. Tavern tonight, yeah? You and me. Just like the olden days.”

“What olden days?” Merlin snorts. “I don’t know, Gwaine—“

“Come on, Merlin,” he whines. “You wouldn’t let me drink on my own, would you?”

“That has never stopped you before,”

“Be that as it may,” Gwaine allows graciously. “Say yes. Say yes to the tavern, Merlin.Maybe you just need to relax and go for a laugh. I can start a brawl or two, and then you can turn the barbarians we are fighting into pigs.”

Merlin scrunches his nose up in distaste.

“You can tell me all the things the princess has done wrong in the past ten years?”

Well, with that sort of proposition…

“Fine,” Merlin sighs noisily. “You’re paying, though.”

Gwaine just beams at him.

* * *

Gwaine was right—it _was_ a good idea. They didn’t start a brawl, and Merlin only spent _half_ the time complaining about Arthur being a prat. He didn’t talk about the nightmares, either. He spent the other half talking about _that_ conversation—about Arthur kissing him and how Merlin doesn’t know what that means.

“ _Sod off,_ you don’t know what that means,” Gwaine groans, “when two people kiss each other, it usually means—“

“Shut up, Gwaine,” Merlin slurs, patting him quickly on the arm, “so this is what he said, right? This is what he said; he said he’s not expecting anything going forward, and that _that_ could be _that._ ”

Gwaine blinks slowly before nodding sagely, “what a git.”

“Right?”

“Does that explain why you both haven’t been sleeping?” Gwaine asks, suddenly soberer than Merlin previously thought. Sneaky bastard. “You were _pining_ over each other?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Merlin snaps. “I don’t _pine,_ ”

“But he does.”

“Who said?”

Gwaine pauses, considering him with a surprised look. “Arthur is right,”

“What?”

“You are thick.”

Merlin gapes, betrayed.

“You didn’t see him then, when you were off on that little—that’s another question, actually. When you were all, you know—” he waves vaguely, “—Emrys, where did _you_ go?”

“What do you mean, _where did I go_? I was right here!”

“Yeah, but how does it work? Do you remember everything that happened?”

“Of course I was, I was _me_ the whole time! Emrys isn’t a whole other person, he is part of me. Emrys didn’t take over my body—or whatever—I am him, and he is me.”

Gwaine blinks. “Right.”

“I remember everything that happened,” Merlin reiterates, because Gwaine seems even more confused. It’s easier to just gloss over that bit. “I just didn’t really—feel anything.”

“So you do remember how miserable Arthur was? Or the bit where he wouldn’t give in?”

Merlin purses his lips.

“That was pining, love.”

“He’d do the same for everyone else.”

“Maybe,” Gwaine concedes, even if he appears doubtful. “But he did that for you.”

* * *

“Where were you last night?” Arthur demands immediately upon seeing him.

“Tavern,” Merlin replies easily, squeezing his eyes shut against Arthur’s _shouting._

“You don’t expect me to believe that,” Arthur scoffs. “Not anymore. So, I’ll repeat—where were you really?”

“In the tavern,” _Gods, why is Arthur being so loud so early?_ “Just ask Gwaine.”

Arthur’s mouth snaps shut with a click. When Merlin sneaks a glance, he sees that Arthur’s jaws are clenched tightly. “Oh.”

“Will you cut that out, please,” Merlin snaps irritably. “It’s not—like that—between us.”

“Like what?”

“Gwaine is a friend.”

“Is _that_ what you call it,”

“All right, a _very_ good friend, sometimes—“ They had a lot of fun together, but Merlin doesn’t need to say that out loud. Not when Arthur already looks pained, a pinched expression on his face. “But we haven’t. Well, not recently.” Merlin looks up, meeting Arthur’s gaze straight on. “Not after you kissed me.”

Arthur swallows. “Well, in that case,”

Merlin runs a hand through his hair, aggravated. “I don’t know what you want from me, Arthur.”

“Don’t you?”

“No!” Merlin bursts out, exasperated. _Why can’t you just tell me what it is that you want?_ “First, you kissed me, and then you said _nothing needs to change._ So now we’re carrying on as we were, but you’re acting like a possessive _arse_ and—“ and then, before he could stop himself, he blurts out, “—you don’t own me, Arthur.”

Arthur flinches, stricken, looking as though he’s been slapped.

The annoyance evaporates as suddenly as it came, leaving a terrible taste in Merlin’s mouth. “Sire, I—“

Arthur raises a hand to cut him off, a blank mask slipping over his features. Merlin flinches. It’s a face Arthur wears when he doesn’t want to let his feelings show. It’s an expression he usually reserves for potentially hostile foreign envoys, or when he is dealing with his father’s old advisors. But not Merlin, never Merlin. And that’s how he knows how deeply his words have hurt Arthur.

“You don’t have to say anything else, Merlin,” Arthur interrupts him, pasting a pale smile on. Merlin despises it. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear.”

* * *

Despite the—Merlin refuses to call it a fight—Arthur continues to wake Merlin when he is struggling with his dreams. It was inconvenient for them to avoid each other, especially when they are still carrying on with their research to put a stop to the nightmares for good. But it is downright impossible when Arthur holds Merlin every night as he sobs, wordlessly anchoring him to the waking world and murmuring calming words into his ears. He doesn’t even bother asking Merlin anymore. Not recently, in any case.

“Do you think it could be a curse?” Arthur yawns. They have been reading Geoffrey’s books for hours. “Someone who wants to weaken Camelot’s defences, or someone with a personal vendetta?”

“Gods, I hope not,” Merlin groans, “because that would be an incredibly long list,” he slips into the tongue of the Old Religion and mutters something harsh and unintelligible, though, just to make sure. Nothing happens. “No. No curse,” Merlin concludes, thunking his head loudly against the wooden table, “wish it were that easy.”

“Good to rule that out, at least.” Arthur flicks through pages about breathing techniques impatiently, eyes already glazing over. Gaius had mentioned them previously, citing one of his correspondents from the East. While the exercises were successful in putting them quickly into slumber, it does not stop the nightmares from resurfacing. Gaius has written to them to request further instructions, considering that the exercises were unheard of in this part of the world and nobody knows for sure if they are doing it correctly, but the letter is likely to still be at sea.

“Is there a spell that could just—you know—“ Arthur waves his hand vaguely, “—take it away?”

“It doesn’t work like that,”

“Well, how does it work, then?”

“The spell—if there is one—would just take the nightmares away. It wouldn’t solve the underlying issues that caused the nightmares in the first place.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

 _Guilt,_ Merlin doesn’t say. _Self-loathing. Horror at the choices he has made in the past. All the blood on his hands. All the people he had betrayed. Gods—all the people that he has killed._

“ _Merlin_ —“

“Old memories,” Merlin cuts in before Arthur can let out another one of his annoyingly loud long-suffering sighs. It’s beginning to really grate on his nerves. If Arthur’s plan was to annoy Merlin into telling him everything, it’s working remarkably well.

“Surely that’s better than nothing,” Arthur reasons.“We haven’t slept properly for weeks.”

The royal _we_ again.

 _Nobody said you had to wake me when I dream,_ Merlin wants to say. _Nobody is making you suffer with me._

He knows that Arthur won’t take too kindly to that, though.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, his tone a clear warning. As if he could read the thoughts in running through Merlin’s head.

 _When did this happen?_ Merlin wonders. _Since when could he read me so well?_

“Just do it, will you,” Arthur barks out when Merlin doesn’t reply. “We can try to find another, more permanent solution later. In the meantime, we need to rest.”


	3. Chapter 3

It seems as though the solution he proposed works, because he has slept through the night for a week now. The change is incredibly refreshing, and Arthur is feeling better than he has in weeks.

It boggles the mind, then, why Merlin looks _ghastly_. He has always been on the thinner side, but he now looks as though a strong wind wouldn’t only knock him over, but snap him clean in half. His face is white and bloodless, with dark circles under his eyes. He looks thoroughly drained, as though he hasn’t slept for centuries.

Considering Merlin’s track record in hiding things from him, Arthur finds it all incredibly suspect. 

Arthur finds out why Merlin looks so awful when he walks into Merlin’s room one afternoon, unannounced, looking to speak about reports of a terrible three-headed hound terrorising villages up north. He finds Merlin with his fringe singed and black marks on his table, puffs of smoke still lingering in the air.

“What on earth happened here?”

“Potion-making accident,” Merlin scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Just a minor explosion.”

“Explosion?” Arthur repeats dubiously, squinting. “Funny that, Merlin. I’ve been in my chambers the whole time. I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Er, yes,” Merlin shifts uncomfortably. He is simply _radiating_ guilt. “About that.”

Arthur’s blood runs cold. “What have you done?”

Merlin hesitates.

“ _Merlin,”_

“I might’ve put a soundproofing spell on my walls,” Merlin mumbles, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes.

So the nightmares haven’t stopped, after all.

And the thought of Merlin deliberately shutting Arthur out like this—

“Why would you do something so idiotic?” Arthur shouts, furious.

“I didn’t want to bother you!” Merlin yells back. “You need to _rest,_ Arthur, you have a kingdom to run—“

“And you need to be on your top form if you are to defend Camelot!”

“There is no need for both of us to suffer,” Merlin bites out, “I can handle things fine on my own.”

“This is _not_ handling things!” Arthur’s voice drops when he continues, “why do you keep shutting me out, Merlin?”

_Why can’t you trust me? Are things so irrevocable between us that you can’t find it in you to trust me?_

“Why are you here, Arthur?” Merlin shoots back, on the defensive now.

“What do you mean?” Arthur replies, his own guilt momentarily forgotten. “Where else would I be?”

“You don’t have to do this,” says Merlin bitterly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Is that what you think this is?” asks Arthur, hurt. “You think I’m trying to settle a score?”

Merlin’s hesitation before answering is damning enough. “Why else would you do it?”

“Because you are my friend!” _For gods’ sakes, I can’t keep myself from being concerned even if I wanted to._

Merlin stares, stunned and slack-jawed. Arthur doesn’t expect the sheer level of shock on Merlin’s face to hurt as deeply as it does—he feels it as keenly as he would a kick in the chest.

Arthur’s brows furrow deeply. When he finds his voice again, he speaks softly, looking away, unable to see the surprise on Merlin’s face. “How can you not know that by now?”

Merlin is quiet for a while, evidently trying to process this information.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ve been stupid.”

Arthur looks up at that, his upset dissipating rather quickly and replaced with utter glee. He commands, in his haughtiest tone, “good. I am glad we are in agreement. Now go write that down on a piece of parchment so I can have that in writing,”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but there is a small, relieved smile on his face. He says, “I suppose I’m just too used to it.”

“What, being stupid?”

“Doing things by myself,”

“You don’t have to anymore,” replies Arthur. “Now, if you could finally get that through your thick skull, that would be fantastic.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin sighs contentedly, before sobering. “Thank you, Arthur.”

* * *

_Merlin has been sparing him,_ Arthur realises after that, as he wakes for the third time that night. In the span of a week that Arthur heard nothing but silence from Merlin’s room, the nightmares have gotten impossibly worse. He tells himself that it’s better like this—it’s better that he knows the true extent of how bad it really is.

The alternative isn’t worth thinking about. The fact that Merlin did it at all stings more than Arthur lets on. Arthur doesn’t ask again what it is that Merlin dreams about, but by the gods does it hurt. Merlin knows him better than anyone else. He knows everything there is to Arthur, all his flaws and his insecurities. Knows the whole of Arthur’s heart and Arthur’s mind. And for Merlin to offer so little of him in return—

Throughout this time, he has refused to beg. It is unbecoming for a king to plead for something not freely given. But he wouldn’t demand it, either, and wouldn’t command it. He vows not to be that sort of king. But he is exhausted, and the lack of sleep is hardly helping matters. In the end, it is he who breaks first.

“Come on then,” he nudges Merlin with his shoulder. It’s particularly bad tonight, and Arthur is so tired of not knowing. “Out with it.”

“It’s really nothing,” Merlin insists, pig-headed as always. “Nothing I haven’t told you before, anyway.”

Arthur stares expectantly. Merlin isn’t the only one who can be stubborn, and there’s no dissuading Arthur once he puts his mind to something. Not tonight. Not after so long.

Merlin knows it—he knows Arthur well enough. He looks down, resigned, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Let me help,” Arthur says softly, pleading. He feels naked and flayed open, but he has seen enough. He can’t bear to see Merlin in pain. “You don’t have to bear this alone. Not anymore.”

Merlin leans back and stares at Arthur in response, wide-eyed, looking as if he had never seen Arthur before. _Idiot_ , Arthur thinks to himself, with feeling, even if the disbelief makes Arthur ache. He hasn’t hidden anything—he knows he hasn’t been opaque. How can Merlin not know how Arthur feels?

“I don’t know how,” Merlin admits, his voice small and unsure. Lost. He’s breaking Arthur’s heart and he doesn’t even know it.

Arthur hates it. Hates that Merlin had been alone through all those things from before, hates that he had had to keep it to himself and suffer in silence for so long. Hates that he never bothered to ask, even after. He wants nothing more than to pull Merlin close.

“Let me share your burden,” Arthur says again, earnestly and with as much conviction as he can muster. _Let me take care of you._ “Let me in, Merlin.”

Merlin is trembling. Arthur rests a hand upon his back, stroking up and down in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. _You don’t have to be alone anymore._ “All the time you were on your own. Let me make it up to you. But I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”

At that, Merlin’s head snaps up, eyes wide and wet.

 _I trust you with my life,_ Arthur wants to say. _I trust you with everything that I am._ _What can I do to make you trust me in return?_

“It’s nothing I haven’t told you before,” Merlin repeats. “When you told me to tell you _everything,_ I did.”

Arthur waits. It’s imperative that he gets his reaction right, and that he gets his mind in order. Then Merlin begins to speak.

Merlin speaks of the lightning that he brought down to strike their enemies where they stood. Speaks of the innocent people who perished from dragon fire, spoke of the magical creatures that he has drowned, slammed into stone walls with enough force to break skulls, struck dead with falling branches. Speaks of all the times he not only saved Arthur’s life, but also took another’s in return. He’s right—Arthur’s heard all this before. But Arthur didn’t listen then. He was so preoccupied with the things Merlin had done behind his back—the things he had lied about—that he spared no thought to how much Merlin had suffered. How the choices he was forced to make might’ve affected him.

Merlin speaks of the Battle of Camlann. He never spoke of the toll it takes on him before, but Arthur sees it now, written all over Merlin’s face. “So much blood, spilt,” Merlin’s voice comes out in a horrified choke. “So many lives lost. Lives that _I_ took.” his voice breaks. “They were just boys—“

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur murmurs, placing a placating hand on Merlin’s back.

Merlin shudders, burying his head in his hands. “They were just following orders,” he moans, “not so different from Camelot’s men.“

“Don’t,” Arthur pleads. “Don’t go down that path, or you will be lost.”

Merlin doesn’t respond to that—he doesn’t have to. Arthur can hear the _perhaps I am already lost_ in the defeated hunch of his shoulders.

“None of that,” Arthur’s voice is harsh. “They were thugs and mercenaries, Merlin. They died in battle. It was nobler a death than they could ever deserve.”

“But they hardly _battled_ , did they?” Merlin snaps. “I didn’t give them any chance to.”

“You mustn’t punish yourself like this.” Arthur scolds. _I hate to see you so upset._ The corners of his lips quirk in a joyless half-smile. “Or did you forget? You, too, were just following orders.”

_If anything, you can blame it on me. Let me shoulder it so you don’t have to._

“ _I_ agreed to do it,” Merlin says miserably. “I could have refused. Or I could’ve done less, maybe, and give them a fighting chance. They might be thugs, or mercenaries, sure. But they could also be ordinary men who might not have had a choice. Not like _I_ had.”

“Without you, thousands more would’ve perished.” Arthur soothes him. “Good, honourable men, Merlin. You made sure they could come home to their wives and children. You made sure there was a _home_ they could come home to.”

Merlin doesn’t look up at that. Arthur sighs. _You saved me,_ Arthur thinks to himself. _You saved all of us. You should be happy—you should be basking in glory._

The bards will be singing his name for centuries to come, recounting the deeds that he has done in great awe. Foreign kings and queens will tremble in his presence.

But Merlin never cared for all that. He has always been different, singular, unlike any man Arthur has ever known. He’s a gentle soul, he wasn’t raised a knight like Arthur was. The life he led in Ealdor was simple, concerned only with patching thatched roofs and growing vegetables. Butchering a chicken or two, maybe, but not so much a man. It was so far removed from the responsibilities thrust upon him as Arthur’s protector.

“At what cost, though?” Merlin murmurs. His eyes are wet.

“You remember well what Morgana did to Camelot, before. It’s not as if she made a secret of it. They knew it, yet they decided to ally with her.”

“The _warlord_ Helios decided to ally with her.” Merlin retorts. “The rest of the men just followed. They, too, could have been fathers, husbands, and sons—”

“They chose to follow Helios,”

“How many men do you know break fealty from their lord and live to tell the tale?” Merlin argues back. “Even _if_ they had a choice—how much of a choice do you think they really had? Men like Helios—they don’t ask. They take.”

“And some men follow men like Helios,” says Arthur patiently, “not because they are forced to, but because they want to. Because they like it. You’ve seen your share of these men, Merlin.” _Not everyone has a heart as good as yours._ Arthur is silent for a moment, considering his next words carefully. “And at the end of the day, that’s the reality of it. It was war. You kill or be killed. Gods know I’ve tried to avoid it as much as I can. It was a senseless waste of life, but more senseless would be letting more of my men be killed in unprovoked attacks when they’re just trying to complete their patrols.” Arthur pauses for breath. “Morgana is _determined._ You know this. She wouldn’t stop. It was inevitable.”

When it comes to it, it has always been clear-cut to Arthur. He was raised to make snap decisions and let the great thinkers and the navel-gazers ponder the finer aspects of good and bad. That’s what they are for, after all.

He has always known war as a necessity. But he, too, has grown become aware of the tales the bards don’t tell. They don’t sing about the acrid stench of blood and death, the broken bones piercing through skin, groaning men trying to hold their guts from spilling out. It would be enough to drive anyone mad.

“I’ve tried not to let it escalate,” Arthur says, a little defensively. “You know I’ve tried. You know how many of our men she’s killed before. _She_ declared war on _us._ ” He rests a hand on Merlin’s thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly. “She would’ve razed Camelot to the ground,” Arthur adds. “She would pillage and bleed the land dry. How many more would’ve died then?”

Merlin is silent.

“Your bleeding heart, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs. “It’ll be the death of you someday."

Merlin shrugs helplessly. They are silent for some time—the only thing they can hear is the whistling wind outside the window and the embers of the fire sputtering out in the hearth. Arthur’s hand is still resting on Merlin’s thigh. Merlin isn’t pulling away.

Merlin hesitates, opening his mouth and closing it again.

Arthur feigns an exasperated sigh. “Out with it.”

“Will you stay tonight?” Merlin blurts out the question quickly.

Arthur’s heart thuds painfully in his chest. Despite himself, he can feel a smile blooming on his lips. “Of course,” he allows graciously. “You need only to ask.”


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur hardly sleeps that night, hyperaware of Merlin’s body next to his, reassured by his warmth. They keep a respectable distance—Arthur’s not entirely sure how close Merlin wants him and he’s not willing to push it.

Not for the first time, Arthur marvels at the enormity of everything that Merlin has given him. He turns his head to one side, allowing himself to drink in the sight of a peacefully sleeping Merlin. _Look at him,_ Arthur thinks with wonder. _Look at everything he’s done for me. Look at the power he wields with his fingertips. The power he lays at my feet. I don’t deserve it. Nobody does._

Because it was all for him, wasn’t it? Merlin has made it perfectly clear before. Everything he did, he did for Arthur, and now look how much he has suffered for it.

Arthur’s heart clenches. Gods, but he is terrified of the day when Merlin will realise that Arthur has never deserved the depth of Merlin’s devotion. The day Merlin sees that Arthur is a simple man, just like anybody else, trying to do his best with the lot that he’s been given. He just so happened to be born to kings. Because the day that Merlin has this revelation, he will walk away. And where will Arthur be?

All along, it was never Merlin who needed Arthur. He was so arrogant before to fancy Merlin needing his protection. He once thought that Merlin was so lucky to have a lord as benevolent as he—one who puts up with his antics when any other noble would’ve had him whipped to death for his mouth within the first week, if not had him straight up executed for treason. How wrong he was. How blinded he was by his hubris that he never realised that it was he who needed Merlin by his side. He was so inflated with a sense of self-importance before, believing himself somehow chosen and favoured by the gods to carry out this noble destiny placed upon his shoulders. He is older now, and he knows better. He understands the truth—he’d be nothing without the man by his side.

Arthur thinks about how Merlin is nothing like him. Arthur has been trained to kill since birth, but he still remembers his first kill vividly—it’s the sort of memory that would linger with any man. He was only thirteen, then, and Uther had deemed him old enough to be sent out on a patrol with a band of knights. Arthur had been itching for his first proper fight for some time, hungry for glory and blissfully oblivious to the gore of battle.

They were ambushed by bandits, as it happened, and Arthur fought the way he was taught to. He didn’t hesitate when he dealt the mortal blow. But he, too, remembers how he shook afterwards, pale and upset, and remembers trying to hide it from his father’s knights. They had looked at him with immense understanding, then, because they, too, remembered their first kill. They clapped him on his shoulder for a job well done, but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but nauseous. Later, when they asked him to collect more water from the nearby stream, Arthur lingered on the bank, heaving and retching, desperately scrubbing the blood from his hands for what felt like hours. It never washes away.

Merlin, on the other hand. Merlin’s upbringing has left him woefully unprepared for his destiny. Arthur always thought of him as a bit of a girl, really, the sort who cried over unicorns and wouldn’t see glory in combat. Arthur’s never met anybody like Merlin. All the men he has in his acquaintance—they all see war as something that is not only necessary; they see it as an opportunity. A chance to prove their worth, a chance to die blazing with glory. A chance to show their might, their valour, their skill. It’s something warriors were bred to yearn for. But Merlin is no warrior.

It makes all that Merlin has sacrificed worth so much more.

Arthur never wanted this for Merlin. Never wanted those shoulders weighed down with guilt and duty, never wanted those hands to tremble with horror at the things he had to do. Never wanted Merlin’s bright eyes, once so guileless and sparkling with good humour, to dull and grow tired, the way they are now. He never wanted Merlin to change. He’s only ever wanted Merlin to be happy.

He turns to his side so that he can face Merlin. Merlin’s face is smooth and unlined in his sleep—he looks at peace, for once, and Arthur takes the time to commit the sight into memory. It’s not often that he gets to see Merlin loose and unguarded like this. And the fact that Merlin can relax in his presence at all is humbling. He can’t imagine there have been many people who have seen Merlin with his defences down.

When Merlin is awake, he is often tense and coiled tight, always on the lookout for the next threat. It is impossible not to admire his control. To an untrained eye, Merlin looks so unassuming, too—just a simple country boy, raised above his station, not fitting in with the rest of the highborn court. But that’s exactly what made him so effective at protecting Arthur.

Arthur remembered when Merlin was only recently appointed as Court Sorcerer.

 _How could they miss it,_ Arthur thought to himself, watching as the visiting envoys’ eyes glided past Merlin and onto the next lord. _How did they miss the power so obviously thrumming under his skin? How could they not know who they are standing in the presence of?_

And then, _how did_ I _miss it for so long?_ Perhaps he really is as thick as Merlin often accuses him of being.

That has changed now, of course. Whispers about the devastation Merlin has wreaked on the battlefield have reached all corners of the land. All the other kings and all the other queens know now, leaving them either in fear of Merlin or in awe and coveting him for themselves.

It’s up to Arthur now to show Merlin how much Arthur needs him by his side.

* * *

Merlin doesn’t dream that night. Unfortunately for Arthur, bed-sharing seems to be a one-off. Merlin doesn’t mention it the next day, and Arthur doesn’t, either. He will give Merlin all the time in the world, even if he wants nothing more than to curl protectively around Merlin each night, holding him close and reminding him that he is here, and that he shall not be alone again. He will take whatever Merlin gives and will not ask for more, too afraid of pushing him away.

The very next night, Arthur is woken by the sound of Merlin’s door gently clicking shut. Arthur is on his feet within moments. He dresses quickly and sheathes his sword before going to Merlin’s chamber, heart pounding wildly in his ribcage.

There’s no intruder in Merlin’s bedchamber. There’s no Merlin, either.

Upon closer inspection, there’s neither a sign of forced entry nor a sign of struggle. And Merlin is more than capable of holding his own. The only things missing from the chamber is Merlin’s travelling cloak and his walking boots.

He left of his own volition.

Arthur runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated, before quickly putting his travelling cloak on and setting out to find Merlin.

* * *

Arthur finds Merlin standing alone in an open field, past the lower town where the grassland meets the forest. It is raining hard—unseasonably big, fat droplets that soak through clothing quickly.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls out, but Merlin doesn’t seem to hear him.

Arthur hangs behind and watches as Merlin flings his arms open and summons a storm. He stands even as the rain batters him, sensing that Merlin wants to be left alone, at this moment. Yet Arthur finds himself unable to leave.

Merlin is howling to the sky, his voice hoarse and broken with rage and anguish and sorrow, calling for lightning to strike the land.

 _It’s magnificent,_ Arthur thinks quietly to himself, staring in awe at the flashing lightning and rolling thunder that bow under Merlin’s command. _He’s magnificent._

He feels guilty for even thinking it, especially when Merlin is so clearly suffering. He doesn’t step forward, either—just stands there, heartbroken for Merlin, drenched and cold to the bone.

He thinks about how it was never like this when Merlin was fully Emrys. Can’t help but wonder if Merlin’s magic was protecting him from whatever this is. If he was detached and unfeeling, he also couldn’t feel pain. Arthur knows what he would choose—he’d choose to feel, to experience joy even if it means that he will experience grief. But Merlin didn’t get to make that choice. It was Arthur who pulled him back—Arthur had made that choice for him.

 _Is it my fault?_ Arthur wonders, watching silently as Merlin screams his anger and grief and guilt and whatever else it is that has been building up inside him. _After everything, did I drive him to this, too? Will he blame me for all his pain?_

These are questions he would never voice out loud for fear of Merlin’s honest answer. He is terrified that Merlin will see it for what it is—see that staying by Arthur’s side has brought him nothing but trauma and suffering. And for what? The glory of serving Camelot?

He already knows that he can’t lose Merlin—but this, now, certainly feels like Merlin is slipping further and further away from him, off to a place where Arthur can’t reach him. His gut churns uneasily. He is nauseous, and the air feels thick around him. The droplets battering his face makes it even harder to draw a breath. He clenches his fingers, and unclenches them again, forcing calm. He doesn’t move, focusing instead to fill his lungs with air.

It’s not until Merlin sinks to his knees that Arthur comes forward to crouch behind him. Merlin’s fingers are splayed upon the wet earth, knees deep in the mud as he sobbed, murmuring apologies to the earth for the damage that he has done. Magic flows from his fingertips in thin golden tendrils, seeping deep into the earth, leaving sprouting grass and wildflowers in their wake. The rain subsides before too long, but Arthur doesn’t move.

“You don’t have to be here,” Merlin whispers, barely audible. His eyes are gold.

“I know,” Arthur replies. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Arthur insists that Merlin sleeps in Arthur’s chamber, after that, because obviously Merlin can’t be trusted with his own wellbeing.

Merlin offers up a half-hearted protest. “I’m going to wake you,”

“I _will_ insist that you do wake me, actually,”

“But you need your beauty sleep,” Merlin whines. “We know how grumpy you get in the morning if you don’t have enough sleep. Your poor knights—“

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur interrupts him, resolute. “It is decided. I will hear no more of this.”

“What a waste of perfectly good bed,” Merlin laments mournfully. “Just a door away, and the floor is so cold—“

“Who said anything about the floor?” Arthur rebuts, and Merlin freezes. Arthur turns away to hide his furiously heating cheeks. “My bed is large enough for four.”

Arthur turns a gracious smile at Merlin as he sputters. Then Merlin smiles wickedly, a mischievous glint in his eyes, wiping the smile off of Arthur’s face. “Why, Sire,” Merlin flutters his eyelashes in an outrageous mimicry of the visiting noble ladies seeking Arthur’s favour, “if you were after my virtue, you should’ve just said so.”

Arthur snorts like a boar. “As if you had any virtue to speak of,”

Merlin tilts his head in acquiescence, the cheeky sod, and Arthur gapes, struggling to keep the amusement on his face. “Dirty bugger!” Arthur laughs, even as something uncomfortably like jealousy rises in his chest. To him, his laugh feels a little bit false and sounds a little bit forced, but it’s not as if Merlin is observant enough to notice these things.


	5. Chapter 5

Sharing Arthur’s bed turns out to be a genius idea, generally speaking, because being so physically close to Merlin means that Arthur can feel it when Merlin is about to slip into another one of his nightmares. It means that Arthur can wake Merlin up without being fully awake, himself, which results in more restful nights. Better still, Arthur gets an excuse to hold Merlin while he sleeps.

It also means that Arthur can spring questions that have been keeping him awake at night at Merlin. Merlin is brilliant—truly the Camelot champion—at evading questions, but it is difficult for him to run when Arthur is lying so close.

It usually goes a little bit like this:

Arthur is on his back, staring at the ceiling, fingers steepled above his chest. Even when Merlin is facing away from him, he can tell, by the measure of Merlin’s breaths, that Merlin is still awake.

“Did you know?”

He can feel Merlin tensing next to him. “Know what?”

“On the battlefield. At Camlann.” Arthur takes a deep breath, not turning to look at Merlin. “Did you know what would happen to you?”

Merlin’s reply doesn’t come immediately. “I had my suspicions,” Merlin admits after a brief silence, “but I wasn’t sure.”

Not too long ago, this admission would’ve devastated him. He is too tired now to feel anything, because of course this is another thing that Merlin would hide. “Why on earth would you not tell me?”

Merlin hesitates again. “Didn’t think it was important.”

“ _Didn’t think it was important!_ ”

“I’ve done it hundreds of times before!”

“ _Have you_ , now?”

“Well, not quite on that scale, but something equally life-threatening—“

“Oh, and that makes it better?”

“Nothing has ever happened before! I always came back.”

“And that makes it alright, I suppose!” Arthur snaps. “Next time—“

“Expecting a next time already, are we?”

“—Hopefully not, but one can’t be too cautious, I suppose, and especially not with _you_ —the risk to your life better be the first thing out of your mouth. I will not tolerate anything like that happening ever again. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sire.” Then Arthur’s words seem to catch up with Merlin’s brain. “What did you mean, _especially with me?”_

“You’re not exactly known for your self-preservation skills, Merlin,” Arthur remarks mildly. Really, that’s an understatement. “Care to tell me why?”

Merlin turns to face him in surprise.

“What, you think I can’t tell?” Arthur adds bitterly. “You’ve been keen to throw your life away since the day you arrived.”

“It’s my destiny to protect you,” Merlin replies, eyes shining with conviction. “Whatever it takes, Arthur.”

“Who told you that you had to die for me to protect me?” He is genuinely curious. He is angry, too, now, wondering who the hell had put the idea in Merlin’s head. Gods, he’d slay them where they stand. “I’ve heard of this prophecy too, you know. The druids aren’t exactly subtle with these things. And you know what they all say, Merlin? They all say that you’re meant to be by my side. We were meant to accomplish everything _together._ ”

Merlin is quiet.

“So you better keep that in mind before you decide that your life is worth so little.” _I can’t bear to lose you,_ Arthur thinks desperately, willing Merlin to understand. _When will you understand that I can’t bear to lose you?_

“Arthur—“

“Go to sleep, Merlin,” he murmurs gruffly, not wanting to hear whatever idiotic rebuttal Merlin was probably going to say. He slings an arm carelessly around Merlin’s waist.

“You’re the one who brought this up,” Merlin protests, even as he shifts to accommodate Arthur before settling down.

“Shush now,” Arthur tells him, pulling Merlin close and closing his eyes.

He doesn’t dream that night.

* * *

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Live with it.”

Arthur lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Stop being vague, Merlin.”

“The guilt. Knowing that you’ve ended someone’s life. Somebody just trying to do their best, like you and me—“

“You and I,”

Merlin whacks a pillow on Arthur’s face. “You know what I mean.”

Arthur inhales deeply, mulling the question over before settling on an answer.

“You learn to live with it. It gets easier.”

“I've been doing it for years,” Merlin points out, “It hasn’t.”

Arthur chooses his words carefully. “That’s because you were doing it on your own.” Arthur points out. “You don’t have to anymore.”

_You have me. You’ll always have me._

When Arthur turns to face Merlin, Merlin’s expression is full of wonder, some of the weariness erased from his face. “I don’t, don’t I.”

Arthur sighs again. “You don’t. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Merlin shimmies, closing the gap between their bodies. Wavers before lifting his head and hesitantly resting it on Arthur’s chest. There’s warmth blooming in Arthur’s chest, just under his ribcage. He imagines Merlin will be able to hear the racing of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins. It’s absolutely ludicrous that he could feel this much affection for this ridiculous man in his bed. Arthur smiles, his heart full and content, and carefully slings an arm around Merlin, cradling him close.

Merlin doesn’t dream that night, either.

* * *

This time, when Merlin wakes, he wakes pale and wan, shivering. He gently extricates himself from under Arthur’s arm, sitting up, ignoring Arthur’s questioning half-awake mumble. Arthur blinks, his eyelids still heavy. Merlin swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up before burying his face between his knees. A sense of unease slithers in Arthur’s gut, worry gripping his chest, tight like a vice. Arthur sits up and shifts to close the gap between him and Merlin, rubbing up and down his back. To his relief, Merlin doesn’t pull away.

“You pulled me back,” Merlin grits out through chattering teeth. His voice is hollow, but the way he said the words made it sound like an accusation. Something twists painfully in Arthur’s chest. Merlin looks so small, so lost. So full of self-loathing. Arthur’s heart sinks.

He stands; walks around the bed and kneels in front of Merlin.

“Yes,” Arthur rests his hands on Merlin’s thighs, bowing his head. “I did.” He’d do it again, too, over and over, to keep Merlin beside him.

Merlin is shaking again. He looks up and levels an accusatory glare at Arthur. “Why did you?”

Arthur flinches as if burned, dropping his hands. He can feel the blood draining from his face. There’s suddenly very little air in the room—it’s difficult to breathe.

“You should’ve just let me go,” Merlin begins to sob, burying his face in his hands. “At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with this—“

“You can’t mean that,” Arthur whispers. _Not after everything we’ve been through._ He feels cold, detached, not quite believing what he’s hearing.“It will get better. It will.” It has to be.

Merlin doesn’t reply, just continues sobbing into his knees. But he doesn’t protest either, when Arthur threads his fingers through his hair, carefully holding the back of Merlin’s head like something precious. As if he was holding something as fragile as a newly-hatched nestling instead of the most powerful sorcerer who will ever walk the earth. His eyes are burning, his heart is shattering in his chest. Arthur swore he’d protect Merlin with his life once, but how the hell can he protect Merlin from this?

There is guilt too, heavy in his heart. If being Emrys had protected Merlin from this, then Arthur had been the one to tear that away from him. _He_ is the one subjecting Merlin to these horrors. _He_ is the one forcing Merlin to confront his guilt and his trauma. _He_ is the one tormenting Merlin.

 _Greedy_ , Arthur thinks to himself disgustedly, _I was so selfish, he saved me and I only wanted more, and look at what it’s done to him_ —

“Forgive me,” Arthur mouths into Merlin’s hair. “I never meant for this, I’m so sorry—“

He never meant to put Merlin through this—never meant for Merlin to carry out all his dirty work for him. Never wanted Merlin to bloody his hands so Arthur could keep his clean. He thinks about how Merlin stood on that battlefield, the whole of the earth under his command. He thinks of Merlin, sweeping death and destruction over Camelot’s enemies under _Arthur’s_ command. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t _Merlin._ It’s not in his nature.

That wasn’t the man that Arthur knew, yet it was Arthur who has shaped him into such. It sinks in, suddenly, the extent of everything that Merlin has done in his name. It sits heavy on his conscience.

His father would’ve said that this is what it means to be king. It means sending men into battle, knowing full well that they might never come home. It means that his people would throw down their lives for him, willingly, even if Arthur hadn’t wanted them to. It means living with the consequences.

 _But look at the toll it has taken on him_. Arthur thinks. _Look at how he is breaking._

How has he done this to the man that he claims to love?

 _Gods,_ Arthur exhales, shaky. _If I’d known, all along—_

And then what? What would he have done, if he had known that Merlin had been doing all these grisly things behind his back, all to protect Arthur?

“Merlin,” he murmurs, pleading. The truth is that he doesn’t know what he would’ve done, but he knows now that he would do everything in his power to save Merlin from this agony. Even if it means letting Merlin go if Merlin chooses to go. “Merlin, please—“

He can’t help but wonder, now, if being so close to Merlin has only harmed him.

“You’ve done your duty,” Arthur says, even as his voice breaks. “You’ve protected me, you’ve saved Camelot. You’ve helped me bring peace upon the land. You’ve fulfilled your destiny, Merlin.”

Merlin looks up at that, astonished. His eyes are bright, even in the dark.

“You can rest now,” he continues, forcing the words out of his lips when all he wants is to throw himself at Merlin and beg him to never leave. He’s done it before, but it doesn’t get any easier. “You don’t have to do anything, anymore, if you don’t want to.”

Merlin gapes, his sorrow momentarily forgotten. “Are you _sacking_ me?”

“No,” Arthur denies quickly. _Gods, never._ But this—he needs to say it now for fear that he won’t have the strength to say it at all later. “I’m giving you the freedom to choose.” Tears are rolling down his cheeks now—he doesn’t bother wiping them. “You can see the world, Merlin. Learn everything there is to learn. Help people where you can help them, and use your powers for good.” He huffs a wet chuckle. “You can take Gwaine, even. Gods know how useless you are with a sword—someone has to protect you.” _Even when I can’t._ Especially _when I can’t._

His crown has always been a heavy weight upon his brow, before, but he’s never felt the weight so keenly as he does now. He desperately wants it, wants to venture beyond this land that he loves with all his heart. He wants to see it all, wants to learn new things that he can bring back to Camelot. And he wants to do it all with Merlin by his side, just the two of them, the whole world opening up before them.

But he knows that he can’t. Not yet, anyway. His place is here. Everything that he is is bound to this land.

“Arthur—“

“But I meant what I said before,” Arthur continues, trembling despite himself. “You’ll always have a home in Camelot.”

Merlin seems torn, but that tells Arthur everything he needs to know. He looks as though Arthur is dangling everything he’s ever wanted in front of him—things he never knew he even wanted—but doesn’t know if he should take it. _Merlin needs this,_ Arthur tells himself. He often makes decisions without knowing for sure whether it is right or wrong, but not this time. He knows in his bones that this is the right thing to do.

“What about you?” Merlin replies. “What about Camelot?”

“We’ll be alright,” Arthur reassures him, trying to make himself believe it as well. _I will have to be._ If not for himself, then for Merlin’s sake. “We’re not completely helpless without you, you know.”

Merlin snickers at that. “Well. I’m not too sure about that.”

“You said that you don’t have to be physically here to protect Camelot,” Arthur reminds him, thinking of Emrys. It feels so long ago, yet here they are again. They have come so far since then. “But if it helps, then we can ride out together and you can strengthen the protective wards around the borders,” Arthur offers. “Tomorrow, even, if you want.”

Merlin is silent, considering, weighing his options. “Maybe not tomorrow,” he finally decides. “There’s no need to rush, is there? Or are you so keen to be rid of me already and finally get a full night’s sleep?”

His tone is teasing, but Arthur knows him too well. Well enough to be able to tell that there is a grain of truth veiled under the lightness of his tone. A part of him dies a little bit at Merlin’s question—is that what he thinks this is?

“Don’t be daft,” Arthur shoots back, hurt. _I’m not doing this for me. If it were up to me, then we’ll stay here, on this bed, and never leave. But it’s not up to me._ “I think it’s high time that _you_ get to decide what _you_ want to do.”

“Arthur,” he breathes out, lost for words, marvelling at the enormity that Arthur has given him. “I wouldn’t know the first thing to do.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Merlin?” Arthur nudges him. “You’ve exhausted Gaius’ books. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what else you can do?”

 _I’m encouraging Merlin to leave,_ Arthur realises, dazed. _After everything he did to pull Merlin back, he is now trying to make Merlin leave._ He wants to laugh, bewildered at the absurdity. He never thought he’d see this day.

“I’ll miss Camelot,” Merlin says, tears welling up again. It’s at this moment that Arthur knows he’s made his choice. “I’ll miss you.”

“We’ll be here,” Arthur vows. “We’ll always be here.”


	6. Chapter 6

“There is something on your mind,” Guinevere observes, astute as ever. They are having dinner in her chambers. It’s something that she insisted on, especially after that fateful conversation. It’s something that Arthur wants, too, but didn’t dare to ask. He is determined to let her dictate the terms of their new relationship. “Is it Merlin?”

“Why do you think that it’s Merlin?”

“Because it’s always Merlin,”

Arthur hums. “Yes, but—“ he’s unsure, suddenly, if this is a thing that he should divulge at all. This is Merlin’s story, not his. “It’s not mine to tell.”

“I understand,” she nods. “Has it improved, his nightmares?”

He stares up at her in surprise. He wasn’t aware that she knows, but in hindsight, it’s obvious that she should know—she was Merlin’s friend first. They tell each other _everything_.

“I dare say it’s quite the opposite.” Arthur swallows heavily. “I wonder, sometimes, if him being here has only made it worse.”

“I’ve, er,” she starts, hesitating, “I’ve invited Hunith for a visit. I thought Merlin would enjoy the surprise.” She wrings her hands. “I thought if he wouldn’t talk to me, maybe it would help him to talk to his mother. Hopefully I wouldn’t be overstepping.”

“No, I don’t think you would be,” Arthur reassures her, “I think he’d really love it. It’s been awhile since he had any opportunity to visit Ealdor.”

She watches him, a considering look upon her face. “I just wish that I could do the same for you."

“Oh, Arthur,” _not again,_ he hears. They have been here before.

“I—“ he snaps his jaw shut again. “I told him to go out and explore the world. Use his magic for good. I told him to use his powers to help people, the way magic is supposed to be used—“ he trails off, swallowing again against the burn in his throat. “He is wasted in Camelot. I’ve only ever used him as a weapon.”

She is quiet, taken aback. She did not expect it of him, he knows, especially not after everything Arthur went through to get Merlin back. But to be fair, he has surprised himself as well.

“That wasn’t all you,” she disagrees. Her voice is gentle, careful. “He chose to do it, too. You mustn’t blame yourself for everything, either.”

Arthur exhales. He didn’t even realise that he was holding his breath.

“And a lot of what he did, I think, was necessary.”

Arthur’s eyes flicker up to meet hers. He has underestimated her yet again. He keeps thinking of her as this pure, sweet thing, forgetting that she, too, has always been just and pragmatic. In doing so, he has done her a disservice. She is compassionate, but the steel in her bones has always been there. This is what makes her a brilliant ruler.

“I understand how difficult it must be for you,” she says, looking at him intently. “But for what it’s worth, I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“Thank you, Guinevere,” he says, sincere and choked up. He didn’t come here for validation, but he will leave reassured anyway, and for that, he is beyond grateful. Then he laughs. “I told Merlin to take Gwaine with him.”

“Oh?” she sounds genuinely baffled. “Well, I suppose he has always been an adventurer at heart. This is probably the longest he’s ever stayed in one place.”

 _That’s because Merlin is here,_ Arthur doesn’t say. What he says instead is, “you know he will be a pain if he is left behind.” He didn’t make the decision for Gwaine’s sake—it was for Merlin’s, but to say that Gwaine is ecstatic would’ve been an understatement. He says yes—of course he does—almost immediately. “Somebody needs to watch over him, gods know what sort of foolish thing he’ll get up to, left to his own devices,”

“And you think Gwaine is the right person for the job,” she replies dubiously.

“He’s good with a sword,” Arthur reasons. “I know Merlin thinks he can get by on his own—“ _but I don’t want him to,_ he thinks. “But he could always use some extra protection.”

She nods. “They have always been close,”

Arthur hums. That he knows, but will resolutely not think about.

“Do you know when he’ll leave?”

“There are preparations to be made,” replies Arthur. “In a week’s time, we are planning to ride around Camelot’s borders, so he can strengthen the wards before he leaves. That might take some time.” If Merlin is going to leave—and if Arthur doesn’t know when, or if, he will be back—then Arthur would like to make the most of his remaining time with Merlin.

Merlin’s destiny has always been so intertwined with his—it is impossible to tell where one ends and another begins. It is time to figure that bit out. It is time to learn what it means to be without the other. For Merlin to be Merlin, instead of Arthur’s Merlin.

 _I don’t own him,_ Arthur reminds himself. _And I shouldn’t try to, either._ _This is the right thing to do._

It doesn’t make it any less devastating.

“Arthur—“ he hears Guinevere call out, but her voice sounds far away. He feels her arms around him, after that, and he bows his head, resting it upon hers. His own arms feel heavy—he doesn’t have the strength to hold her in return. He hears a sob distantly, but he thinks it might come from him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “I’m sorry, Arthur,”

“What if he doesn’t come back?” he hears himself say, voicing out that terrible fear that has been niggling in the back of his head ever since his conversation with Merlin. He doesn’t know what he wants her to say—doesn’t know if he wants false reassurances or the hard truth. Because he knows the truth: nobody can know with full certainty what the future holds. Merlin’s decision is entirely in Merlin’s hands. Arthur has no more say on the matter, and that makes it all the more terrifying. He is not used to feeling so helpless.

“Then our lives will be richer for having known him at all,” she replies. He closes his eyes. “Have faith, Arthur.”

* * *

It is morning when someone knocks on Merlin’s door.

“Come in!”

There’s an audible click as the door opens by a small bit, and then Gwen pokes her head through. She is beaming, cheeks flushed with excitement. “There’s someone here who would like to see you,”

She doesn’t wait for his reply and swings the door wide open to reveal Hunith standing behind her.

“Mother!” he mutters a quick spell to extinguish the fire from where he is brewing a potion and rushes to greet his mother. She seems well. There is a healthy flush to her cheeks, and she is smiling so widely that it must hurt. It has been moons since she saw her last—it was well before the entire Emrys debacle, and before Camlann.

“Merlin,” she spreads her arms wide, and he half-runs into her arms, overjoyed. She wraps her arms around him in a warm embrace. “It is so good to see you.”

“And you,” he steps back, grinning. He turns to Gwen, who is watching the exchange with a fond smile. This is her doing, he is sure of it. “Thank you.”

“I shall leave you to it, then,” she grins before walking away.

He invites Hunith in.

“Is this your chambers now, Merlin?” she casts her eyes around the room around the room, evidently impressed. “This is larger than our whole house.”

“You can move here, too, Mother,” he shoots back, grinning. “I would really like it if you do, in fact. Not to mention Gaius—he’d be so pleased to see you. His spare room is still empty, I’m sure he won’t mind. He could use another pair of hands too, now.”

“You have thought this through, haven’t you,” she smiles. “Perhaps. I shall have to mull it over.”

They catch up over porridge that Merlin has prepared. It is remarkably strange to think about how much his life has changed in Camelot, but how little has changed in Ealdor. They have been through a war, followed by a personal battle of his own—but things in Ealdor has remained the same. Last winter, apparently, wasn’t as harsh as expected, and they had plenty in the grain store to spare. Merlin’s spell from the last time he visited might have had something to do with it.

“You seem tired, Merlin,” Hunith observes, a worried frown on her face. She is being kind, Merlin knows, because tired is putting it lightly. He looks ghastly, these days—prominent dark circles under his sunken eyes, lids puffy with lack of sleep. His cheeks are gaunter, his skin a shade paler.

He knows better than to try to hide things from her. This is the woman who gave birth to him and raised him—she sees through him like nobody else ever would. She has a sharp gaze and misses nothing, and when she disapproves of something she would make it known with this particular _look_ that rivals Gaius’ expressive eyebrows.

He is afraid to tell her. The last thing that he wants is for her to think that she has raised a monster. This isn’t why she sent him to Camelot. He doesn’t think he can bear it to see disappointment and consternation in her eyes at the man that he has become.

It doesn’t stop the truth comes spilling out in an unstoppable torrent of words.

“I’m so tired,” he hiccoughs wetly, tears streaming down his face when he is done. “I’m so tired, Mother.”

Her eyes are bright with tears, too, and he knows that she never wanted this for her son. No mother ever would. But he is grateful when she pulls him in, letting him rest his head upon his lap.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” she murmurs, stroking his hair, her movements slow and gentle. She used to do this when he was young, and he still finds it comforting. She lets him weep into her lap, heavy sobs wracking his frame, leaving him drained and exhausted. He is fast asleep before too long.

That is how Arthur finds them, not too long after Merlin fell asleep—Merlin with his head on Hunith’s lap, the tears still drying on his face, Hunith still running her hand through his hair.

“Merlin—“ Arthur was shouting, but when he opened the door and saw them he calmed immediately. “Oh,” he mouths. “Sorry, Hunith. I didn’t realise you were arriving today.”

“My Lord,” Hunith bows her head and does her best to curtsey with her son on his lap. Arthur looks awkward standing there, caught wrong-footed, looking as though he was a bumbling man instead of Camelot’s king.

“Please, it’s just Arthur,” he mouths back at her, not wanting to wake Merlin. “I’ll come back later. He didn’t get much sleep last night.”

 _Neither did you,_ Hunith thinks. She always thought him Camelot’s finest, before, with his good heart and legendary bravery. No better man to be sitting on the throne. She hasn’t forgotten what he has done for Ealdor—the whole village still likes to tell tales about it.

She doesn’t know how he feels towards the man now. Arthur didn’t demand Merlin to do the things he did, save for the one time at Camlann. It doesn’t change the fact that Merlin did it _for him._

“Stay, please, if you can,” she whispers back. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Arthur looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole, his dread palpable in the air. He swallows before visibly steeling himself and coming to sit next to her.

“He is much too exhausted to wake now, I think,”

“He has told you.”

“Indeed, Sire.”

He looks like he wants to correct her, but thought better of it.

“Thank you for being there for him through all this.”

His eyes flicker up to meet hers, dumbfounded. “He wouldn’t be in this position at all if it wasn’t for me.”

“That is true enough,” she says, and he recoils, guilt written in his features. Perhaps his council members would have tried to deny it to his face, and her candidness surprised him. She doesn’t try to soften the blow. “But from what I understand, he wouldn’t be here at all either, if it wasn’t for you.”

“I don’t know, now, if that had been the right thing to do,” he confesses in a low voice. “I did it for my own sake. I was too afraid to lose him.”

“I don’t think he means what he said,” she tells him, but he looks away at that, unable to meet her eyes. “He is going through a lot. But so are you, it seems.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“It is, my Lord,” she retorts. “Because everything he did, he did for you.”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Arthur replies miserably. “Gods, I would never—“ he trails off, his breath hitching. “I would never ask it of him, if I’d known.”

 _But how could you not have known?_ Hunith wants to ask. _You know Merlin. You know he would do_ everything _for you, whatever the cost. How could you not have known what it would’ve cost him?_

_You have reduced him to this. Just another weapon in your arsenal._

She keeps her silence instead. She will not speak treason out loud. Not even to this man, whose belief had pushed her boy into living a lie for so long, who had unwittingly allowed her son to suffer as much as he has.

Not to Merlin’s king.

“Forgive me,” Arthur whispers. His eyes are locked on Merlin’s sleeping form, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He is sitting very still, coiled tight and brittle, as though a strong wind could knock him over and break him apart. He is not the confident man she knew, the one who rode to Ealdor determined to help his friend and teach the villagers how to stand against bandits. He looks tired, almost as tired as Merlin, and almost equally drained.

 _He loves him,_ Hunith realises suddenly. _He is doing everything in his power to make it right._

“He is leaving,” Arthur tells her. His voice breaks, his tone pleading. “I told him that he is free to leave. I can’t—I _won’t_ ask any more of him.”

 _Good_ , Hunith doesn’t say. She nods instead. She is glad.

 _Arthur didn’t make Merlin do it,_ a little voice in her head pipes up. It sounds a little bit like Merlin. _Merlin_ wanted _to do Arthur’s dirty work for him. Merlin_ wanted _to spare him._

They were Merlin’s decisions, at the end of the day. Not Arthur’s, no matter how much Arthur wants to claim otherwise. She would do well to respect Merlin’s choices.

She softens. For all his part in Merlin’s hardship, it is evident that Arthur wants to save her son, whatever the cost to himself. She can’t overlook the fact that he is here now, by Merlin’s side, doing everything he can to help Merlin. As if making up for lost time. She can’t bring herself to hate him—not in the face of this knowledge. They are truly as bad as each other.

 _He must care for you a great deal,_ she remembers telling Merlin, all those years ago. Never has it been more obvious than it is now. She can tell that it hurts him more than he lets on, telling Merlin to go. It is obvious that Merlin leaving is the very last thing he wants.

She can see, now, why his son is so devoted to his king. She can see how that devotion is being reflected.

“I know this isn’t hasn’t been easy for you, either,” she tells him. “I’m glad he has you. Thank you, Arthur. For saving my son.”

He smiles then. It’s a small smile, but his fierce relief is plain. “He’s a curious one, Merlin,” Arthur notes, full of affection. There’s infinite fondness in his eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like him. There’s only ever good in his heart.” Hunith smiles at him in return, but Arthur isn’t quite finished. “You’ve raised, really, quite an extraordinary son.”


	7. Chapter 7

Merlin is packing.

Arthur hovers at the doorway, not quite believing that it’s time already. Their tour ended up taking up a lot longer than initially expected, but Arthur still feels like it ended far too soon.

_Merlin bites his lip. “There is a lot of ground to cover.”_

_Arthur looks at the map again. “Yes, thank you for your insight, Merlin. I believe we have established that days ago.”_

_“It could take the better part of the year.”_

_“Merlin,” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “We have been gone on longer campaigns.” They’re not exactly gallivanting in the woods, here. “Strengthening the wards on our borders might not be a pressing necessity now, but this is something that we’re bound to do, sooner or later. We don’t know when we can get another opportunity like this—this is the most stable the kingdom has been in a long time. There’s no time like the present.”_

_“What if you’re needed here?” Merlin presses for the twentieth time._

_“This is the least needed I will ever be,” Arthur replies patiently. “Besides, Guinevere is more than capable of handling state matters for the length of my absence.”_

In truth, Arthur needed that tour out as much as Merlin did. Between the war, Merlin’s nightmares, and the constant stream of things demanding his attention as a king, Arthur had forgotten what it feels like to be human. There, in the deep forests, or the undulating grasslands, or the stretching coastline—he feels like he could breathe. He fell in love with his land, deeper than he ever thought he could imagine. That tour allowed him to meet his people who live in far-flung borders, ones who are least likely to make the journey to Camelot to make petitions with the king. He spoke with them and smiled at their children as they hid behind their mother’s skirts while Merlin speaks with the farmers, enchanting their crops to help ensure a better harvest.

“It’s good for them to see their king,” Leon mentioned once. “Especially after such a hard-won war.”

Percival nods in agreement. “It’s something that they will remember for the rest of their lives.”

Arthur exhales in relief at that, because there are nights where a sense of guilt sinks in his stomach like a stone. Because the tour _had_ felt awfully self-indulgent, even if they were kept incredibly busy most of the time. When Merlin isn’t busy manipulating elements and weaving intricate spellwork, Arthur treats with some of his vassals and his lords to see for himself how they had fared after the war. They haven’t fared too badly, all things considered, and while some of them still regard Merlin with distrust, the protection Merlin offers prove too tempting to refuse.

Arthur learns more about magic than he ever thought possible, and if anything, it only cemented his belief that his decision to repeal the ban on magic had been the right thing to do. He wonders what else is possibly there for Merlin to learn.

Arthur is content standing there, watching Merlin bustle around the room, picking things up and putting them down again where he found them, not quite sure what to pack. It stretches for what feels like an eternity.

“Do you even _know_ where you’re heading?” Arthur asks. A bit exasperatedly, perhaps, as he watches Merlin pack and unpacks his coat. He is _fussing_. Gods, this is what Merlin drives him to. Not even Gaius fusses this much.

“Not really,” Merlin admits cheerfully. “Rather fancy going further north, maybe,”

“Really,” Arthur frowns. “There’s still a bit of chill in the air, you know. It’s not quite spring yet. And you know how unbearable you get—“

“Sure it will be spring when we get there.”

Arthur looks dubious.

“Alright,” Merlin rolls his eyes, nowhere near as irritated as he ought to be. “South, then,”

“Don’t know why you fancy going there, heard Sussex is having some trouble with the Gauls—“

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts, but there is a fondness in his expression. “Is there any place, in particular, that you’d like me to go?”

Arthur harrumphs, but doesn’t say anything else. Merlin stops packing then and there, placing some brass contraption gently on the table before addressing Arthur. “I can stay, you know,” he says softly. “I don’t _have_ to go. Not if you need me here.”

Arthur pauses. He wants nothing else than to keep Merlin in Camelot, safe and whole and within sight. _I’ll always need you here._ But it doesn’t matter what he wants. Not now. Arthur swallows his words and says, instead, “I trust that you’ll come back when I need you.”

“Always,” Merlin swears. Merlin’s eyes are so very wide. Torn between his desire to stay at Arthur’s side and his perpetual thirst for knowledge.

Arthur steps closer and stands in front of him. “And when you come back, you can show me everything that you’ve learnt.”

“Look, Arthur,” Merlin says, suddenly serious, “before I go, I just wanted you to know—“

“Oh gods, you’re not about to cry, are you?” Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes and feigning disgust. As if he hasn’t been baring his heart and soul in front of Merlin for the past couple of years. As if he wasn’t the one holding Merlin close each night, face buried in Merlin’s hair, thinking about how much he doesn’t want Merlin to go. 

Merlin glares at him, annoyed, but carried on as though Arthur hadn’t spoken at all. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t blame you.”

Arthur pretends not to hear him. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s not your fault. Any of it.”

All traces of humour evaporated from Arthur’s face. He frowns. “Merlin—“

“I know you,” says Merlin. Arthur can read Merlin, but he forgets that it’s the same the other way around. There’s no use lying to him. He has seen too much, heard too much to not be able to see through Arthur. Nobody knows Arthur as Merlin does.

Arthur inhales sharply, his expression going pained at once. “If it wasn’t for me—”

“Then I wouldn’t be here at all,” Merlin interrupts. “Well. Not all of me, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t have been lost, either, if it wasn’t for me.”

“Maybe,” Merlin inclines his head, “but it’s likely that I would have done it anyway. There wasn’t any chance in hell that I was just going to stand there.”

And that’s just the truth, isn’t it? At the end of the day, Merlin follows orders he wants to follow, and Arthur never fully has control over what Merlin will and will not do. He might be king, but in front of Merlin, he feels stripped of his crown, of his noble birth—he is just a man like any other. _What an enigma_ , Arthur thinks. Merlin does as he pleases, but he would follow Arthur to the gates of hell.

One would think that there’s no telling to what length Merlin will go to save Arthur. But Arthur knows better.

 _This,_ Arthur thinks. _This is how far he’ll go._ He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Arthur from harm, even if it ruins him. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

“It’s my decision, Arthur,”

Arthur makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“And I’d do it all again,” Merlin vows. His eyes are bright, his words full of conviction. “Each time. Over and over.”

“No man is worth all this,” Arthur murmurs, so softly that it’s barely audible. _I’m certainly not_.

“You are,” Merlin replies simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “All my life, I have always wondered what my magic is for,” Merlin confides. “It’s all for you. You gave me something far more precious than anything anybody could give me—you gave me a purpose. Something to work towards, something to believe in.”

“Merlin—“

“Thank you.” Merlin breathes out.

Arthur has to look away, unable to bear the weight of Merlin’s devotion. But then he remembers, suddenly, why he was here. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mother’s sigil.

“This belonged to my mother,” Arthur says, fingering the round metal, “it bears her sigil.”

Merlin’s eyes widen, but he reaches out all the same.

“Here,” Arthur places it gently in Merlin’s hands.

“Arthur, I can’t—”

“Just—“ Arthur lifts a hand to interrupt him, “take it.”

Merlin is still looking at him like he has never seen Arthur before.

“And when you hold it, I want you to remember Camelot.” _Think of me,_ Arthur pleads silently, desperately. _Don’t forget everything that we are._ “Remember that you will always have a place here.”

Arthur sees a flurry of movements, and that’s all the warning he gets before Merlin’s lips are on his, Merlin’s nose bumping against his. He does it with too much force—Arthur reckons he just surged forward instinctively before his nerve leaves him. Arthur chuckles against Merlin’s lips, heart swooping with joy, and pulls back. Before Merlin can also pull back, though, Arthur raises his hands and holds Merlin’s face with all the gentleness in the world.

 _I wasn’t wrong,_ Arthur thinks, exhilarated and relieved on equal measure. _Not about any of this. Not about what I feel for him, and not about how he feels for me._

“Like this, you idiot,” he breathes, tilts his head, and kisses Merlin. It’s not a chaste kiss, and by no means is it gentle—Arthur kisses him with everything that he is, thoroughly and deeply. Pours everything he has into that kiss—everything that he feels for Merlin, desperate for Merlin to understand. He doesn’t know when he’ll have the chance to do it again.

Merlin responds most enthusiastically and kisses him back with equal fervour, flinging his arms around Arthur like a princess. Their bodies are flush against each other, fitting in ways Arthur was always determined not to think about before. Merlin is all hard planes and sharp angles, so unlike anybody else that Arthur has ever kissed. Above everything, it feels right.

“Arse,” Merlin mutters breathlessly when they break apart for air. His lips are swollen, blood-red, a slightly dazed look in his eyes.

Arthur can’t help it—he bursts out laughing.

* * *

Merlin hands him a wooden dragon the next morning. The carving is rough but clearly done with care.

“My father made this for me,” Merlin says wistfully, closing Arthur’s fingers around the small wooden figurine. “He carved it with his blade before he died.”

“The dragonlord,” Arthur breathed out. “Is this because I gave you something of my Mother’s?” Arthur demands, even as a light feeling expands in his lungs.“It’s not a competition, Merlin!”

Merlin looks affronted. “No, you arse!”

“Why can’t you just let me give you _something_ for once—”

“You are such a prat—this has nothing to do with—stop laughing, you git!” Merlin shoves him, but he is grinning too. Then, he speaks again, words coming out in a rush, “I want you to have something to remember me,”

 _How completely absurd._ Arthur thinks. _As if I could ever forget him._

“I can’t take this,” Arthur replies, frowning, “not when it’s the only thing you have of your father.“

“Oh, and shall I return to you your mother’s sigil, then?”

“That’s not the same,” Arthur retorts, even though it is exactly the same.

“Just—“ Merlin exhales, not willing to argue. “Keep it safe, then. For me.”

* * *

It’s not just the Guinevere, Gaius and the knights who have come to the courtyard to see Merlin and Gwaine off. It seems as though the townspeople have spilt out to the streets, ready to bid them farewell and well wishes. Arthur has forgotten how well-liked Merlin is amongst the commoners.

Arthur forces himself to stand still, steels his resolve and fixes his gaze.

Guinevere approaches Merlin first, hugging him tightly. “Promise to me that you will write,” he hears her say. “Don’t make me make it an order.”

Merlin grins. “I will.”

“Gwaine, make sure he writes.”

“I will, my Lady.”

She steps back, then, and Arthur walks forward. Every step feels heavy.

“Look after him,” he nods at Gwaine.

“Yes, Sire,” Gwaine nods back, strangely solemn. An unspoken understanding passes between them.

“I’m not some damsel that needs looking after,” Merlin objects. “I can look after myself just fine.”

“Of course,” Arthur acknowledges gracefully. “The most powerful sorcerer, and all that.”

“Prat,” Merlin mouths, aware of the audience behind him. Arthur has to duck to hide a smile. He is very aware of all the eyes on him. He is aware of everything—the rustling of his cloak, the weight of the crown on his brow. He clears his throat past the tightness, aiming for a light tone.

“So this is goodbye, then.”

Merlin reaches out an arm, and Arthur clasps it firmly. He is aware of every flex of his fingers, the pressure he exerts on Merlin’s arms. He doesn’t want to let go. His breath hitches, caught in his throat. He has said everything he wanted to say to Merlin, and for that, he feels relief. But now, this moment feels monumental, like he’s on the precipice of something. A cliff, one would say, if one is prone to such dramatics, which Arthur certainly isn’t. He has nothing else to say today—nothing that would be sufficient, and nothing that Merlin doesn’t already know.

“If you have any need of me, call out to me,” Merlin continues, looking into Arthur’s eyes. “I will know. And I will be with you.”

“How?” He wants desperately to believe it.

Merlin’s eyes are glittering in the sunlight. “Magic,” he grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“We were bound together before we ever took our first breath,” Merlin says. “Have faith, Arthur. I will always come back to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had bits and bobs of this fic floating around in my mind somewhere, but I didn't expect it to be so difficult to write and string together! Also, I've added extra dialogue in some of the chapters, especially the last one as it feels a bit abrupt. Thank you for reading, do let me know what you think in the comments x
> 
> Up next: Merlin takes a gap yah

**Author's Note:**

> I just love the idea of Arthur trying to take care of Merlin for once, and Merlin having trouble letting him in because he's just so used of sorting things out on his own. 
> 
> Let me know what you think xx


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